my shoulder to keep from inhaling the stink any more than I have to. With my other hand holding the open contractor bag below the mailbox, I pull the shovel forward. The carcass emerges. The smell intensifies and I step back, fighting not to vomit.
I bend forward. Exhale. I can do this.
When the squirrel comes free, I jump back in surprise. Both animal and shovel tumble to the ground, not inside the bag. My arms worm-wiggle again. The squirrel is on its belly, its bottom half flattened, imprinted with tire marks.
I hiss out a watery moan. Fight the urge to puke again. The squirrel couldn’t have survived being run over like that, let alone climbed inside our mailbox after the fact. Someone had to have put it there. Mouth into shoulder again, I use the shovel to push the squirrel into the bag but misjudge the amount of effort needed and flip it instead.
Sticking out of the animal’s chest is a small knife with a plastic handle. I back away, arms rigid, and return with hesitant steps. There’s very little blood around the wound. It’s not the knife. It’s too new—the bit of blade I can see is shiny—but the implication … I’m not reading too much into it. It’s a clear message. They know. They fucking know.
An engine rumbles nearby, and I scoop the squirrel, knife and all, into the trash bag. Gloves, too. This isn’t anything like a picture sent in the mail or a ribbon left on my car. This is a threat.
Or a promise.
I need to call the police. It’s what anyone with a modicum of intelligence would do. A dead squirrel with a knife in its chest is not a friendly message in any way, shape, or form. But what the hell would I say? How can I point them toward anyone specific when I don’t know who’s behind it? Not really. They’ll probably decide it’s kids playing a sick prank. If the knife weren’t there, I’d think the same myself.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I stomp to the trash cans on the side of the house and head inside for disinfectant spray.
If I don’t call, am I putting myself at risk? But haven’t I been at risk since the necklace arrived? Maybe I didn’t want to see it, but it’s more than apparent now. What are they going to do next? They obviously have the advantage. They know where to find me, and I have no idea where or even who they are. That has to change. The rules of this game obviously have.
* * *
On Wednesday I’m sitting in the parking lot outside Alexa’s office when Corinne leaves for lunch, and then I’m inside the building’s elevator faster than I can think about it. This is the easy—and legal—part. My guess is Alexa doesn’t realize how much she’s let slip over the years. Nothing important. Small things like Corinne choosing to eat lunch out of the office every day or her office partner’s habit of leaving his keys in his coat pocket. I don’t even recall the conversation where she brought it up. At the time it was insignificant. Now it’s paramount. And it means I have a good chance of getting in, getting what I need, and getting the hell out.
The warm front blew out as quickly as it arrived, and it felt downright cold this morning. Fingers crossed it was chilly enough for Clark to wear a jacket. Fingers crossed he still takes a late lunch every day. Fingers crossed the outer door is unlocked. If it isn’t, I’ll have to try again a different day. But I can’t waste any more time. Alexa won’t be in Florida forever, and I need Lauren’s address.
There’s a bitter taste in my mouth when I open the outer door. I’m not breaking in, technically, not yet, anyway, but this isn’t morally right. Still, no time for second-guesses or cinematic pauses in the doorway. Only time for a peek down the hall confirming that Clark’s office door is closed.
My luck holds. He wore a jacket and left his keys. It only takes two tries to find the spare to Alexa’s office, and I close the door behind me as quietly as possible. Exhale.
No keys to her cabinets on the ring. Of course not. What was I thinking? Why would she leave them while she’s away? Corinne might have them, though. I kick off my shoes. Run to the front. No keys anywhere. Back in Alexa’s office, I